The Man At The Door
by Robin Straker
Summary: Post Reichenbach. John barely leaves the house any more. When he finally plucks up the courage to go out again, he's confronted by someone. A possibility.
1. Chapter 1

It was the first time John had been out the flat in a week.

Well, attempted it.

When he opened the front door, a sleeping homeless person fell back against John's legs. The man gasped, waking up suddenly, looking up at John and struggling to pull himself to his feet, backing away, arms raised in front of him protectively.

Now he was standing, John could take a good look at him. The man was tall. His hair was black, but it was so filled with dirt, dust and general London muck that it could have actually been blonde or a near luminous shade of red and he wouldn't have been able to tell.

Every inch of visible skin was covered in a layer of grime. _That's living in London for you _John thought.

He wore a torn dark coat, stitched in places, ripped in others, fraying and stained. The buttons that perhaps once held it close around his body were gone, in their place a raggedy piece of string that may have once held together a large piece of pork or beef in some dodgy Brixton butchers.

The man was shaking, though John couldn't tell whether it was in fear, pain or cold. He ran his trained eyes up and down the man before him. He was limping. Pain, then.

John sighed.

He needed Sherlock.

Sherlock would be able to tell him exactly who this man was, why he was here and what medical treatment he needed in seconds.

But, of course, Sherlock wasn't here. He never _would_ be here. And John had become bitter. Before, he would have felt compelled to help this man, to take him in, care for him….

"Piss off." John snapped, slamming the door behind him before locking it and stuffing his keys and his wallet in his pocket. He started down the street, before pausing and turning to face the man, who was looking about, lost. "If you're here when I get back, I'm calling the police." He said, holding up his mobile phone so he could see it. The man stared at him for a while, then carried on looking about, before limping slowly away. Satisfied, John turned and walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

Half an hour later, John returned. His eyes were red from crying at Sherlock's gravestone, _again_. His fingers - like the rest of his body - were cold, but also numb; the plastic shopping bags he carried cutting off the circulation.

He sighed and ground his teeth together as he saw the raggedy homeless man still sitting on his doorstep. But visiting Sherlock had re-sparked his inner doctor instinct, so instead of shouting abuse and calling the police, he approached him.

"Oi. You." he barked curtly. His inner caring doctor instinct had been _re-sparked_, not totally ignited, after all.

The homeless man startled from some mix of sleep and daze from severe anaemia. If it was possible for him to look paler than he already was behind the muck that covered his face like an extra skin, he would have: John's military snarl was quite formidable to anyone who didn't know him.

"You're not well. You're coming to live with me for a bit, okay? I'm a doctor. I can help you get better. I've got a …" he sighed a moment, "a spare room. You can stay there. Okay?"

The man nodded nervously.

"Right then." John muttered to himself, as he opened the door and heaved the thin man up in his arms. He held his breath. "First things first, you're having a wash." He said to the man as he carried him up the stairs in a fireman's lift.

The man groaned at the movement and firm grip, but otherwise remained silent. John set him down on the sofa – _Oh. Sherlock used to lie there just like that… _- before spreading out some towels and a blanket on the floor of the bathroom and running the taps in the bath, squirting some fancy bubble-bath in from a bottle left by his last girlfriend, and some shower gel as well for good measure.

_His coat's even similar to Sherlock's…_John mused as he approached him.

"Um, do you have a name?" He asked.

"It's Shaun." The man slurred, though for some reason, some kind - Northern accent mixed with the pain and drowsiness - it came out more like _Sherrn._

John nodded.

"Okay, Shaun, let's get you in the bath, hmm? Get this muck off you, so I can see your bruises and any wounds and help you out, yeah?"

"_Sherrn!_" The man insisted, his voice dry and strained, but John just nodded.

"Yes, I know your name's Shaun, yes, it's alright." He cooed, assuming he was funny in the head.

The man grumbled something incoherent and John just nodded at him as he lay him down on the towels and blankets, gently easing him out of his clothes. He lightly placed him in the bath, made sure he was alright splashing about and washing himself, while John put all his dirty clothes in a bin bag, aside from the coat, which he decided he would wash. The man needed something comforting, and the coat clearly meant something to him, for him to have kept it this long. He pulled out the decaying string from the button holes, picked out a few bugs and twigs and pieces of rubbish that had gotten lodged in various pockets and seams, before shoving it all in the washing machine, pressing a few buttons and returning to Shaun.


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n sorry it's another shorter chapter gys, i just love to keep the suspense :P**

The man was clean from the neck down, but he hadn't touched his face. He seemed content just lying back in the tub, soaking up the warmth.

John sighed and took a clean flannel from the radiator, dipping it in the warm but now slightly dirty bathwater and dabbing it softly against the man's cheek. When he got to the jaw line, the man hissed and pulled back.

John frowned and looked closer. Now that he had rubbed away most of the muck from that side of his face, he could see that the jaw was swollen, as was that side of his neck.

"So that's why you can't speak properly, hmm?" He asked softly. The man just glared at him, saying nothing, as John inspected his jaw.

"Look, I'll clean the rest of your face up, get you dressed and bandaged up, and then we'll see what we can do to get the swelling down, hmm?" He cooed as he gently turned the man's head to the other side and started dabbing at the muck around his eyes. As he glanced up at his eyes, smiling reassuringly, he did a double take. His eyes were that grey-blue that Sherlock's had been. And it wasn't just a small resemblance either. It was uncanny. John's breath caught in his throat as he blinked away tears, decidedly staring at the man's other cheek and nose as he dabbed. He rubbed softly down the man's cheekbone, revealing it to be prominent and pale. He really gasped this time, as he pulled back and took in the man's face.

The ruffled - definitely black, now that it was clean – curly hair which hung about most of his face. The pale skin, the prominent cheekbones. _Christ_, those eyes.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John ventured, so quiet it was hardly audible. The man's thin, pale red lips curved upwards slightly in the world's smallest smile.

"Mmm," he hummed softly.

John's breathing quickened, his heart racing. As he stood up, utterly dazed, his vision darkened and he crumpled to the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

** A/N Aquaamay asked me to update, so here it is. As always, reviews, requests, whatever. It's fine. It's all fine. **

John blinked awake to a darkened room, softly aglow with candles and the quietly crackling fireplace. He was lying on the sofa, beneath a blanket. He shook his head to clear it and tried to remember how he'd got there.

"_Jrrhn?_" Came a struggled, hoarse voice from the armchair nearest to him. He turned his head and gasped as he saw Sherlock and simultaneously remembered the events leading up to his fainting.

Sherlock was clean, wrapped in his old dressing gown. His hair was matted from being left to dry of it's own accord, all squashed down so it hung into his face more than it had before, but he seemed to not notice. Although his eyes were bright now, pleased that John was awake, it was clear he was tired, fatigued with pain from his swollen jaw as much as his other injuries.

John stood up, stretched, and walked over to Sherlock. Without saying anything, he knelt beside him, so his eyes were level with his jaw, and reached up to take Sherlock's head in his hands, turning it gently towards him so he could examine the damage.

"Someone kick you?" He asked quietly. Sherlock's eyebrows creased at his attempt to open his mouth in a way that apparently caused the least pain. John held his jaw shut just firmly enough so Sherlock knew to give up the effort.

"Don't, you'll only make it worse. Just a nod or something will do."

Sherlock nodded, then paused and nodded again, so John knew he had both understood John's advice and answered his previous question.

John tapped Sherlock's cheek with his finger gently as he stood up.

"I'm going to go get an icepack for your jaw, okay? The swelling should go down soon, but I don't want you talking until your throat's healed too, okay? It sounds like your larynx was used as a scratching post by all the stray cats in London."

Sherlock made a weak smile at that, and watched John go into the kitchen. As soon as John had turned away, his face dropped, eyelids drooped, and he even seemed to look paler as he was finally able to stop pretending he wasn't in quite as much pain as he was.

A minute passed, and John was back, pressing an ice pack gently against Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock tried to hide the evidence of his pain from John, but he was staring at him so intently he just couldn't be bothered even trying. He was just so tired. John sighed when he realised and helped Sherlock up and over to the sofa, where he draped the blanket over him and gave him the icepack to hold against his face. Soon, Sherlock drifted asleep and only then did John come to realise that despite Sherlock's apparent severe handicap for walking properly on his own, he had carried John to the sofa, then lit every candle in the flat, and started the fire burning in the fireplace. John's smile was as soft as the glow of the flat.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Yes, another short chapter. Yes, I haven't updated in ages. No I haven't forgotten about my fics, or my readers, I've just had a load of exams and crap. Apologies. I'd promise to update more regularly from now on or something but I've got a job now, and im doing loads of coursework, and I've also got an interesting project commission thing (not fanfiction) coming up, so I will have even less time to update. As always, love the reviews. Apologies for feels. This chapter's kind of a break from the feels. I guess. I don't know. Oooh look, this A/N is almost as long as the chapter!**

Sherlock awoke to John stitching up a deep knife wound on his leg, which Sherlock had attempted to bandage crudely, and had recently begun to smell. He noticed now, however, that it was clean, and – thankfully – numb. He flexed his hand to get John's attention. John glanced down at the hand, then up at Sherlock with a warm smile. "Alright, Sleeping Beauty?" He asked, turning his gaze back to finishing off the stitches once Sherlock had nodded.

"I made you dinner." He said, wiping the finished stitches and throwing the rag in a bucket beside him. The soapy water in it was now a pinky colour, and the smell exuding from it smelt distinctly of metal and antiseptic. Sherlock shivered and looked away.

"I mean, it's quite late now. Well. Early. It's…uh… just gone midnight. But um…I mean, if you're hungry…I guess I could heat it up for you. Made you bolognaise. You liked that when I cooked it before, remember? And it's a nice hearty meal. I made it with proper mince and everything…not that silly reduced fat stuff…um… sorry, I'm rambling, aren't I?" John realised, looking back up at Sherlock, smiling. Sherlock smiled back, nodding. His eyes watered a little. He'd missed John's rambles so much.

"Sorry. It's just…I've missed you…and I haven't really had anyone to talk to, you know? Mrs Hudson's away a lot, and no one visits any more…I think I scared them off, was a bit grumpy and-" he cut off as he glanced up at Sherlock again. Sherlock was smiling and his eyebrow was raised.

"Oh right…yesterday…yeah sorry…I didn't recognise you…and you could have at least made it a bit obvious it was you. I mean, seriously. Is there not some kind of communal bathroom for the homeless network?" He started laughing, then saw Sherlock's face. He had insulted him.

"Oh, I'm sorry Sherlock. I didn't mean….never mind. Doesn't matter. All that's important is that you're here now, right? You're alive…." John trailed off for a while, staring into space.

Sherlock let him drift a while, then nudged him. He knew John needed time to deal with all this, but he was hungry. As if to emphasize this, his stomach growled loudly. John blinked and nodded.

"Right. Food. Yes."

He got up and walked to the kitchen, muttering, "Sherlock's alive. He's fine. Everything's fine.."


End file.
